I have heard that all ‘love runs deep,
like a river, deeper than the darkest sea’
built on the foundation of harsh experiences
that make us who we are-
Strength, independence, self reliance
it is a fire that courses through my veins
and gives me the strength of a thousand men.
I will never give up no matter how lost,
how scared or tired I feel
I will stay true to myself
because all love –
has to start from within.
Copyright © 2015 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)
Do you remember the time we went looking for a ring I dropped?
You followed me blindly, peering under tables and chairs
-in a room bathed in twilight.
Knowing all along, I must have dropped it in the streets.
But still you helped me-
fatigued, crouched on small legs
wearing your grin and a defiant
sense of adventure.
That’s love.
Salmon pink splurge over liquid blue.
A tail that flutters like an eyelash,
sinking to the grass in petulant smoke.
Copyright © 2015 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)
It was the remnants of a chilly winter
on the cusp of spring,
the freighter ship glowed
a lonely rusty red.
I weaved my arm through yours
seeking warmth from coat sleeves
as it sunk into a darkness
of forbidden murky greens.
Benevolent acknowledgment of
the spirits of the ocean,
a petrified creature;
as the shrill cry of seagulls
wrestled the breath of the wind.
Copyright © 2015 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)
Northumberland, England
Rocks tumble over one another
like greasy sun soaked crabs.
Tender lapping waves
slip over their forms;
a distant echo
and through dying embers
clouds drag pale light
entombed in a blanket of mist.
Copyright © 2015 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)
This is part of a “Snapshots of a Year” series I am doing, each month I will write landscape-inspired poetry taken specifically from my 2015 calendar. Feel free to leave a comment below 🙂
Thanks to the very talented Bonnie for my wonderful book cover design! The novel is called “Caskets of Ice”.
If you have any questions, or think I should release a preliminary chapter (or two!) out into the blog- world, then please feel free to comment below! Here is a link to Bonnie’s page so you can check out her other illustrations and general awesomeness:
The branches hang trophies of golden light,
a dusky orange, bled from the seams
streaked like canon smoke
gnarled tree limbs
wave forth from sandy graves
supporting the weight of the sky
the remembrance,
of a misty blue-grey worth holding.
Copyright © 2015 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)
It sticks out of the bookshelf like a shark’s tooth;
gold leaf with shades of chrome, black.
Too loud, too at ease in its own skin.
Lined up like an army, battered and
dog eared volumes traverse the shelves.
I’d fought wars through those pages,
I had ridden through midnight trains,
soared over cities, learnt life’s bitter lessons.
A snow shaker of timeless dimensions
sealed with glue and trapped in paper walls.
Bending with the weight of secrets.
“I have chosen for you.” he says.
“The book that will change your life.”
He points to the hardbound cover creeping
its way out of the shelf,
inching its way closer-
willing me to pluck it down like a ripe apple.
It looks confident.
The book falls with a resounding thud
into my eager hands.
It is heavy, its skeletal structure
digging into the grooves of my palm,
making a home for itself
like an affection seeking cat.
I glance at its neighbours,
wispy and insubstantial like the smoke of dreams.
With the sound of their hushed murmurings
I turn the first leaf,
as the first four words fall from my lips….
Copyright © 2015 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)
The insanity of talking dolls,
the lifeless bundle of thread and stuffing,
breathe life just by playing,
giving it a name, making a voice,
moving its limbs. Already it is real,
real name, real expression and then;
it becomes not an ‘it’ but a ‘they’
and when you come home you wonder-
at the way they sit and look out the window.
Because they move all the time-
…..Didn’t you know?
Copyright © 2014 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)
“So go on, tell me a story.”
I wish I knew how a happy story began. Instead I start with “it happened with the whispering folds of a satin curtain sliding down a staircase. I hid behind the library door as the rasping breath of the priest added to the dust expiring from the floorboards. Every cell of his body strained towards the silver signet ring that dangled tantalising from the bronze statue. He was consumed by desire, iris’s dilating as he imagined the power that would soon course through his veins…”
“This doesn’t sound promising.”
“Cindy can you stop interrupting me?” My seven year old cousin sighs. Her lips are pressed together in a disapproving smoulder, like a dried apricot.
“Once upon a time,” I try again “there was a girl who lived in a cottage, shrouded by a crab apple tree and a blue summerhouse, and a yellow rose bush that blocked out all light.” The beginning sounded crap but I hoped the faster I spoke, the less chance I would be interrupted by her majesty, the story critic Queen. “Sombre ideas flittering in her mind like dancing piano keys. She dreamed of a castle in the sky made entirely of ice crystals, where a figure in a black suit roamed the corridors carrying nothing but a candle, searching. Searching for someone at least, and until he found her, he would not rest. Now, when the light of dusk faded, the clouds shot fountains of ink like a canon, with lanterns to herald the-”
“Bored.”
“You hardly listened.”
“I just want a bedtime story.”
I take a deep breath. The bobbled underside of my slippers make a plastic squelch on the vinyl as I meander my way to the bookshelf, past crushed pizza boxes, phone charger wires and Fanta in sticky glass goblets. I yank a book viciously from the pile, fling it open and prod the black and white illustration with my index finger.
“There, the Blue Bird. It’s a great one.”
“I don’t want a Grimm’s fairytale. How old am I?”
“You tell me.” I try to match her sarcasm, but instead my eyes bulge like a dead fish as I try to maintain the wide eyed look of intimidation.
“Forget it. I’ll read myself.” She peels away the covers and vanishes from the room. I feel oddly cheated. And it is in this state of being pissed off that I drift to sleep curled like a python at the foot of the bed.
Copyright © 2014 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)
~ 